Nicholas- the Fantastic Origin of Santa Claus

by Cody W Urban

  “Hoy! I have him!” he called out as loud as possible, but the current and crashing waves were only sucking him out further. He shouted over and over until he finally felt the rope snag; maybe he had reached the full length of it, or Lysander had finally heard his call.

  Lysander, Pete, and other crewmen tugged hard on the rope and were able to lift Nicholas and Illias over the ledge. Illias plopped down on the deck a soggy limp mass, and despite his shaking and exhausted extremities, Nicholas tried to resuscitate the unconscious sailor right away. Compressions on his chest and breathing into his mouth proved futile for the time being, and fed up with it all, he punched Illias’s chest until he coughed out the seawater. The crew sighed in relief, some laughing with joy, as Illias, gagging and hacking, was alive once more.

  “I was sure he was gone,” Lysander said. “Now he lives!”

  “You—you saved him!” added another sailor.

  “’Twas surely a miracle!” said another.

  Nicholas patted the sailor’s back, warming him and knocking the water out of his lungs. “There, sir, you are safe now.”

  Ilias looked up at his hero, struggling to speak and breathe, and managed to say, “Good sir, your name?”

  “My name is Nicholas.”

  It was the next morning when Andriace, the harbor of Myra, came into view. Nicholas could only stare at it, amazed at where he was, still surprised at where the current of destiny dragged him. Everyone on the boat called him “Nicholas, the Savior” for his heroic deed saving Illias, yet he did not feel worthy of the title. He knew one called Savior, and Nicholas was nowhere fit to dare fill even one of his sandals. He considered why he was returning home, why he left in the first place, and he shuddered. The Romans murdered his parents and he joined them. Maybe it was a fit of rebellion—angry with his parents for dying so easily. Angry that God’s people were persecuted and oppressed and few, if any, really stood against them.

  ******

  He recalled the day his parents died. Nicholas was just over ten years old and had snuck into the hidden dungeon of a church in Patara. It was a spacious, dank, stone-walled hall lit by oil-lamps where several Lycian citizens knelt on the hard floor, surrounded by armed Roman Soldiers. A nasty looking Soldier with a scarred face and mean disposition drew his sword from the chest of a fallen woman. When young Nicholas beheld the horrific sight, he hid in a fright of the disturbing episode he had unwittingly witnessed. He concealed himself in the shadows of the dimly lit room to remain unseen. That was the first killing he had ever observed and it sent his body into panic and shock. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t. He could only spy and see what was taking place. The nasty Roman walked, the sword dripping blood, toward another man who looked familiar. He was a good-looking, well-groomed man in finer attire than the others, kneeling beside a beautiful woman, possibly his wife, in a violet gown. As he felt he recognized them, the people his mind linked them to he quickly severed from his thoughts, unwilling to believe it.

  “You currently kneel in worship before a representative of Emperor Diocletian,” stated the scarred soldier, “deified ruler of the world. Remain kneeling, ye profess fealty unto him. Stand... and be counted a rebel doomed to execution.”

  “I worship no Emperor,” said the man, and it was at that moment young Nicholas knew his father’s voice and knew it was he and his mother who now faced execution.

  “Fie!” huffed the soldier. “Caesar is lord! The empire brings unity and economic opulence through open trade and commerce. Roman armies protect people and offer freedom! All that is asked is unwavering fealty. Do ye now stand?”

  Epiphineos, with strong determination in his eyes, rose to his feet. Nicholas wanted to cry out and say something, but trepidation solidified his every muscle. The Roman gazed appalled and loathsome into the eyes of the dissenter, and plunged his blade into the chest of Epiphineos. He fell dead beside Nona, who watched him in utter horror and a wrenching ache in her heart.

  “Let the record tell, Epiphineos, merchant of Patara, chose rebellion unto death,” said the Roman to a scribe behind him. His eyes glared down upon Nona next and he said, “Shall Nona, his wife, do likewise?”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her lips pursed with resolution. Nona resolved that dying as a martyr would abandon her son, but felt comforted that God would protect him. She was determined to stand for the glory of her God, never sharing her worship with any other. So, before armed men she courageously stood. The last thing Nicholas remembers seeing that day was her hand dropping a wooden cross to the stone floor and bouncing in the dust.

  That was the day Nicholas became an orphan, a forlorn child in dire need of adult guidance and wisdom, in need of love and compassion as all children are in need of, only now he didn’t know where he would find it. It was shortly after, during a secret funeral for his parents, when his uncle performed a ceremony with the young orphan. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Amen,” he recited.

  Nicholas dropped his mother’s wooden cross into the pit and a moment later, dirt followed after and began to fill the grave. Young Nicholas stared teary-eyed down into the pit in the Earth as grim workers filled it. Uncle Nicholas placed a loving hand on his nephew’s shoulder and in the presence of that strength, Nicholas felt it was safe to weep and he wept in his uncle’s sleeve.

  “Why, Uncle, why?” he asked, wiping a tear from his red eyes. “Why did this…”

  “Nicholas?” he asked in a way to lead Nicholas to divulge more of what he felt and thought.

  “They were killed for their faith? Why did God not send an army of angels for his servants?”

  Uncle Nicholas dropped to his knees and looked his nephew right in his watery eyes, eager to nip this chain of thoughts in the bud. “Listen, Nicholas,” his uncle spoke passionately. “Darkness hates the light, and this world is full of hatred. As hard as darkness may try, light can truly never succumb to it. Nay, even the smallest candle sends shadows to flee. Though by darkness did they fall, the Almighty holds their lights burning bright forevermore with endless purpose and precision.”

  “And I would fight against such evil,” Nicholas said. “I would do all I can so that no other should know the pain I have known. It is not fair!”

  “Your parents died for what they believe after many years spent standing strong, enduring,” Uncle Nicholas said firmly, hoping to make his message clear. “Verily, all we truly can strive for is to endure ‘til the day come when the light shall abolish all darkness. It is up to each person to endure and carry his or her candle and keep it lit. Everyone has a candle, not everyone has a fire. We can light each other’s.”

  That day Nicholas felt a firm purpose to light candles, to fight darkness, to save the world. It was a boyhood dream. Somehow along the way, he forgot about it. Now, as the cargo ship pulled into the harbor and he returned to Lycia, that boyhood ambition was more than just a simple candle burning, it was a roaring volcano.

  2

  He must have said, “Why me?

  I am just a simple man of trade.”

  Now having returned home, having spent months traveling to ponder what course of action would be best to take once he would arrive, he still was not sure what to do. Actually, he had no clue. He had acquired skills and strength, he had rekindled his fiery ambition to make the world a better place, to undo wrongs done unto him, to rescue others from wrong doers that would do similar iniquitous deeds to them. He dreamed of another world where no man was labeled by nationality, race, religion, sex, but a place of harmony. Yet, he had to trust in that Heavenly river he was floating down to carry him to something, somewhere, whatever it had in store.

  It just so happened that the church in Myra had fallen on harder times. They had to keep their religion secret, were forced to keep from open religious activities, and would be arrested or worse if caught sharing their beliefs with others. Such an operation would be an act of rebellion, spreading animosity against the Empire. It was such an act that the Bishop of Myra was
put to death for it. His martyrdom gave a heavy blow to the church. The two priests of Myra, Matthias and his younger assistant Bedros, were in a conundrum. Typically, should a bishop pass away, the greater church union would assign a bishop to act in their stead. But with the taxes the Governor had levied upon those of faith, among the many other problems plaguing Lycia at the time, nobody had come.

  And for several nights in a row, the two priests had fallen asleep fervently praying for an answer from Heaven about who should be the next bishop. And both priests had received the very same answer in their dreams. “And then, in my dream, the angel told me to seek the one who would bring victory to the people,” said the twenty-three-year-old Bedros eagerly to his mentor, Matthias, as they walked into the main sanctuary of the hovel they called their church.

  “The same dream I had last night as well,” Matthias replied with gravity. “Pray. We must pray on how to find this man. Verily, it has been too long since our Bishop passed and we have been without and are in need.”

  The two priests fell to their knees, both in their own silent prayers, before an altar of candles and a crucifix, and poured their hearts out to God. Just then, the door slammed open and in came a noisy man passionately thanking the Heavens over and over, causing quite a ruckus and disturbing not only other believers who were there praying or reading, but also the two priests who were trying to pray about the advent of a new bishop. “Praise God!” shouted the rambunctious person. “The Savior, I have seen, come to me in flesh of a man! He has saved my life and I tell it to you all today that ye may thank the Lord also!”

  When many people shot annoyed looks and hushes at him, he sheepishly continued to the altar—finally quiet. “Sorry everybody,” was all he could say and before softly taking a knee beside Bedros.

  Matthias sighed, relieved for the silence, eager to continue with his petition to God. But then the man began to pray aloud, making it hard for Matthias and Bedros to concentrate still. “Lord, I know I don’t come before you as oft as I ought. But You know this sailor, Illias, your servant, and You have watched over him as a loving shepherd over his sheep. I called unto You, oh Lord, and to me You came! I thank You, with all my heart, for my hero, Nicholas.”

  “Nicholas?” Matthias asked aloud. A Greek speaking Lycian was rather familiar with the meaning of the name. Was it possible this boisterous person held the answer to their prayers? Had their dreams come true? “Did you say Nicholas, as in Nike-Laos, son?” Matthias asked Illias.

  “I did, father. Aye,” Illias replied, overjoyed to share the glad tidings.

  “What thinks you?” Bedros whispered, turning to Matthias.

  “Do you not know what sign this is?” he replied to Bedros who may not have noticed the meaning of the name Nike-Laos, which is Nicholas. Before he could disclose his thoughts toward his partner, he returned his attention to Illias and said triumphantly, “Bring us this man!”

  Meanwhile Nicholas, in commoner clothing, led both Sleipnir and Juno, drawing peculiar attention from the crowd of citizens, walking away from Andriace Harbor. They passed a statue of former Emperor Germanicus, erected in his honor when he and his wife, Agrippina, visited Myra in 18 AD and considered how deeply ingrained the Empire was into his country. For many years, Rome had prospered Lycia and all its cities. Yet, after two devastating earthquakes and a plague, plus Diocletian’s systematic genocide of Christians, downcast emotions masked the countenances of this nation’s citizens. Nicholas understood that Rome had allowed for a slight bit of autonomy in Lycia by keeping the Lycian League intact and governing—a democratic body that, in his mind, made the nation a great land historically, one to be emulated for centuries to come. Only the Empire saw fit to set up a Governor who truly ruled with powers vested by Rome. That Governor could veto most anything the League decided should he disagree with it. “Maybe the League would be a body I could work with to undo Vasilis,” he thought.

  Pete carried a few bags, and Lysander pushed through the people that darted out of Juno’s path. Many distraught mothers and fathers came up to them inquiring if they had seen their little boy or girl. However, when Nicholas would inquire more out of them, Roman guards would flash glances to them that silenced them. When they would run away, Nicholas would try to follow and would be stopped by a mob of beggars; far more beggars than he had ever seen even in the poorest regions of the country. He perceived that Lysander’s reports were true: children were missing and people were suffering.

  “Outside of Vasilis’ mansion and capitol,” Lysander began to explain, “he has numerous fortresses. Your search for Nysa may take the rest of your life. That is, if she is…”

  Nicholas, with a mission-oriented focus, abruptly said, “So, after retrieving my inheritance I will uncover the truth and bring him ruin. He will wish he had never heard my name—“

  “Nicholas!” interrupted a familiar voice shouting from a distance beyond the crowd. Nicholas stopped and looked about until he spied Illias pushing his way through the mob and still calling his name until he reached him. Nicholas’s natural reaction was aversion due to feeling overwhelmed by the attention the rescued sailor had paid him over the duration of their voyage. “Nicholas! I herald the coming of two priests. They have heard of your deeds and, by prophetic decree, believe you to be their next bishop!”

  This certainly shocked the three travelers entirely. Nicholas was speechless. Lysander moved in to say, “Tell them that they have made an error. Nicholas is not-“

  “Nay,” Nicholas hushed Lysander. Like taking ingredients for a stew, ideas were coming together to form a deliciously intriguing plan. He was baffled and, like Lysander was about to explain, felt thoroughly unworthy of the title, but he felt sure this had something to do with that Heavenly river he drifted upon. “This may work to our advantage.”

  Illias showed them the way to the monastery of Myra right away and presented Nicholas before the two priests. The priests greeted him warmly, put Juno and Sleipnir in the stable, brought the travelers inside the sanctuary, and began to explain what had happened to their previous bishop, feeling it prudent to clarify the dangers of someone in such an office, but Nicholas never showed a sign of fright. Lysander and Pete stood in disbelief at the notion of their warrior friend taking such a position as bishop for a religion neither of them were perfectly familiar with. Illias simply stood nearby like a joyful fool, thrilled to please his God and be a part of the event.

  “You see,” Bedros said adding to the tale Matthias had just told, “since the death of our bishop, we have been called to find a champion to take his place.”

  “Champion?” Nicholas asked. “Why is this me? What makes you, who knows me not, believe I am a champion?”

  “Your name,” Matthias said. “It literally means ‘Victory of the People.’”

  “Nike-Laos!” Bedros added enthusiastically.

  “We were told by angelic visitation through both of our dreams to seek one who would bring ‘victory to the people’ to act as our next bishop. A bishop we need who would revolutionize our religion. Who would inspire. Who, despite the threats of an evil empire, would not waver in his diligent work,” Matthias explained passionately. Nicholas had to fight his natural tendency to shy away from expectations of grandeur and fate spoken over him. “Yet one matter is troubling, you ought to be a priest first.”

  “A priest,” Nicholas said, catching the interested gazes of Pete and Lysander, both of whom did not know the information Nicholas was about to release, “I am.” He watched their jaws drop in silent protest, first thinking he was lying for reasons they could not understand. Then their emotions turned to shock when they perceived he was not insincere.

  “Are you, really?” Bedros asked, emphasizing the severity of the situation. Nicholas only nodded confidently in reply.

  “Please elaborate,” Matthias said, conjuring up a quiz for the stranger before them. “How many magi came to Mary and Joseph and their newborn? I ask if you will answer intelligibly and with educatio
n behind your answer to determine if you even display understanding of the Nativity.”

  Nicholas thought for a moment, bringing back the stories and accounts he was trained in by his parents and his uncle many years ago. He glanced to Lysander who had an expression to evince, “What have you gotten yourself into?” Then his eyes darted to Illias who enthusiastically held up three fingers, silently trying to help him with the answer.

  “The answer is unbeknownst to us,” Nicholas said.

  “Pray, tell us more,” Bedros said challengingly.

  After taking a deep breath, he explained, “Luke and Matthew tell us of the magi bringing three gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Because of this, we oft assume there were three magi, yet two or more could there have been. The account of yore has kept the exact number a mystery.”

  There was no other reason that Nicholas should accept this fate, Matthias figured. Anyone else gallivanting about as a priest would likely have their head cut off by the Roman guards, or martyred by nay-sayers in the streets. Becoming a priest had absolutely no benefit for a stranger who was not the answer to their dream. “Take a knee,” Matthias said, pleased. Bedros walked up with a bowl of holy water, silently reverent of the answered prayer before him. Matthias grabbed and held a Bishop’s hat and cape before the kneeling Nicholas. “It is divinely clear, Providence has brought you, Nicholas, to shepherd the people of Myra and Lycia. To be our leader.”

  Bedros dabbed the water to Nicholas's forehead and made a cross shaped motion with his hand. “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

  Matthias wrapped the cape around Nicholas's shoulders. “We coronate you Bishop Nicholas of Myra.” Nicholas smirked at his friends, cunningly still conjuring a stratagem this new office would offer. He was on the verge of being overwhelmed at where destiny had drawn him, and he knew it was his old personality traits that caused him to want to tear the robe off and run out of there as fast as possible. But he reminded himself of how rejecting destiny had brought ruin. It wasn’t more than a day after he returned to his homeland had the Heavenly river of fate carried him into a church and into the office of Bishop, an even higher rank than his uncle asked of him. He found himself returning to his childhood, and while he felt unworthy and unqualified, he sprouted a new trust in God that this turning in his journey was for the best. He reasoned the ride down the river of destiny is only easier if one simply lets the current of the stream of life carry them, and the passenger only tread water as needed; to not fight the flow.